Author: aloysius5

Over the years, I have traveled extensively and kept journals, with the idea that one day all of those places would become locations in books. Notebooks filled with odd characters, people and incidents observed, and whole tracts of stories written when the on the spot inspiration has been a driving force. All of this is the basis of the first three novels, Sunday In New York, set, of course, in New York, probably my favorite city in the world, “Echoes From The Past’ equally set in New York, Brooklyn Heights and Philadelphia. The third, The Devil You Don’t, travels through Europe, starting in Geneva, moving to Rome, then Sorrento, and then to Venice. Now, my passion to write is fuelled by travel and fine dining. When I take a break from these, I get to torment my three wonderful grandchildren whom I actively encourage to read as much as they can, and more recently to also write. As for almost every other writer, I would not be able to do any of this without my wife who has put up with my moodiness, the times when I'm locked away in a room trying to push out another 2,000 words, and yet despite everything still puts up with me. I wish I could say the same for our cat. Alas, I am still trying to work out how to be his friend!

Another excerpt from “Strangers We’ve Become” – A sequel to ‘What Sets Us Apart’

…

It was the first time in almost a week that I made the short walk to the cafe alone.  It was early, and the chill of the morning was still in the air.  In summer, it was the best time of the day.  When Susan came with me, it was usually much later, when the day was much warmer and less tolerable.

On the morning of the third day of her visit, Susan said she was missing the hustle and bustle of London, and by the end of the fourth she said, in not so many words, she was over being away from ‘civilisation’.  This was a side of her I had not seen before, and it surprised me.

She hadn’t complained, but it was making her irritable.  The Susan that morning was vastly different to the Susan on the first day.  So much, I thought, for her wanting to ‘reconnect’, the word she had used as the reason for coming to Greve unannounced.

It was also the first morning I had time to reflect on her visit and what my feelings were towards her.  It was the reason I’d come to Greve: to soak up the peace and quiet and think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.

I sat in my usual corner.  Maria, one of two waitresses, came out, stopped, and there was no mistaking the relief in her manner.  There was an air of tension between Susan and Maria I didn’t understand, and it seemed to emanate from Susan rather than the other way around.  I could understand her attitude if it was towards Alisha, but not Maria.  All she did was serve coffee and cake.

When Maria recovered from the momentary surprise, she said, smiling, “You are by yourself?”  She gave a quick glance in the direction of my villa, just to be sure.

“I am this morning.  I’m afraid the heat, for one who is not used to it, can be quite debilitating.  I’m also afraid it has had a bad effect on her manners, for which I apologise.  I cannot explain why she has been so rude to you.”

“You do not have to apologise for her, David, but it is of no consequence to me.  I have had a lot worse.  I think she is simply jealous.”

It had crossed my mind, but there was no reason for her to be.  “Why?”

“She is a woman, I am a woman, she thinks because you and I are friends, there is something between us.”

It made sense, even if it was not true.  “Perhaps if I explained…”

Maria shook her head.  “If there is a hole in the boat, you should not keep bailing but try to plug the hole.  My grandfather had many expressions, David.  If I may give you one piece of advice, as much as it is none of my business, you need to make your feelings known, and if they are not as they once were, and I think they are not, you need to tell her.  Before she goes home.”

Interesting advice.  Not only a purveyor of excellent coffee, but Maria was also a psychiatrist who had astutely worked out my dilemma.  What was that expression, ‘not just a pretty face’?

“Is she leaving soon?” I asked, thinking Maria knew more about Susan’s movements than I did.

“You would disappoint me if you had not suspected as much.  Susan was having coffee and talking to someone in her office on a cell phone.  It was an intense conversation.  I should not eavesdrop, but she said being here was like being stuck in hell.  It is a pity she does not share your love for our little piece of paradise, is it not?”

“It is indeed.  And you’re right.  She said she didn’t have a phone, but I know she has one.  She just doesn’t value the idea of getting away from the office.  Perhaps her role doesn’t afford her that luxury.”

And perhaps Alisha was right about Maria, that I should be more careful.  She had liked Maria the moment she saw her.  We had sat at this very table, the first day I arrived.  I would have travelled alone, but Prendergast, my old boss, liked to know where ex-employees of the Department were, and what they were doing.

She sighed.  “I am glad I am just a waitress.  Your usual coffee and cake?”

“Yes, please.”

Several months had passed since we had rescued Susan from her despotic father; she had recovered faster than we had thought, and settled into her role as the new Lady Featherington, though she preferred not to use that title, but go by the name of Lady Susan Cheney.

I didn’t get to be a Lord, or have any title, not that I was expecting one.  What I had expected was that Susan, once she found her footing as head of what seemed to be a commercial empire, would not have time for details like husbands, particularly when our agreement made before the wedding gave either of us the right to end it.

There was a moment when I visited her recovering in the hospital, where I was going to give her the out, but I didn’t, and she had not invoked it.  We were still married, just not living together.

This visit was one where she wanted to ‘reconnect’ as she called it, and invite me to come home with her.  She saw no reason why we could not resume our relationship, conveniently forgetting she indirectly had me arrested for her murder, charges both her mother and Lucy vigorously pursued, and had the clone not returned to save me, I might still be in jail.

It was not something I would forgive or forget any time soon.

There were other reasons why I was reluctant to stay with her, like forgetting small details, an irregularity in her character I found odd.  She looked the same, she sounded the same, she basically acted the same, but my mind was telling me something was not right.  It was not the Susan I first met, even allowing for the ordeal she had been subjected to.

But, despite those misgivings, there was no question in my mind that I still loved her, and her clandestine arrival had brought back all those feelings.  But as the days passed, I began to get the impression my feelings were one-sided and she was just going through the motions.

Which brought me to the last argument, earlier, where I said if I went with her, it would be business meetings, social obligations, and quite simply her ‘celebrity’ status that would keep us apart.  I reminded her that I had said from the outset I didn’t like the idea of being in the spotlight, and when I reiterated it, she simply brushed it off as just part of the job, adding rather strangely that I always looked good in a suit.  The flippancy of that comment was the last straw, and I left before I said something I would regret.

I knew I was not a priority.  Maybe somewhere inside me, I had wanted to be a priority, and I was disappointed when I was not.

And finally, there was Alisha.  Susan, at the height of the argument, had intimated she believed I had an affair with her, but that elephant was always in the room whenever Alisha was around.  It was no surprise when I learned Susan had asked Prendergast to reassign her to other duties. 

At least I knew what my feelings for Alisha were, and there were times when I had to remember she was persona non grata.  Perhaps that was why Susan had her banished, but, again, a small detail; jealousy was not one of Susan’s traits when I first knew her.

Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.

When I swung around to look in the direction of the lane where my villa was, I saw Susan.  She was formally dressed, not in her ‘tourist’ clothes, which she had bought from one of the local clothing stores.  We had fun that day, shopping for clothes, a chore I’d always hated.  It had been followed by a leisurely lunch, lots of wine and soul searching.

It was the reason why I sat in this corner; old habits die hard.  I could see trouble coming from all directions, not that Susan was trouble or at least I hoped not, but it allowed me the time to watch her walking towards the cafe in what appeared to be short, angry steps; perhaps the culmination of the heat wave and our last argument.

She glared at me as she sat, dropping her bag beside her on the ground, where I could see the cell phone sitting on top.  She followed my glance down, and then she looked unrepentant back at me.

Maria came back at the exact moment she was going to speak.  I noticed Maria hesitate for a second when she saw Susan, then put her smile in place to deliver my coffee.

Neither spoke nor looked at each other.  I said, “Susan will have what I’m having, thanks.”

Maria nodded and left.

“Now,” I said, leaning back in my seat, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why you didn’t tell me about the phone, but that first time you disappeared, I’d guessed you needed to keep in touch with your business interests.  I thought it somewhat unwisethat you should come out when the board of one of your companies was trying to remove you, because of what was it, an unexplained absence?  All you had to do was tell me there were problems and you needed to remain at home to resolve them.”

My comment elicited a sideways look, with a touch of surprise.

“It was unfortunate timing on their behalf, and I didn’t want you to think everything else was more important than us.  There were issues before I came, and I thought the people at home would be able to manage without me for at least a week, but I was wrong.”

“Why come at all.  A phone call would have sufficed.”

“I had to see you, talk to you.  At least we have had a chance to do that.  I’m sorry about yesterday.  I once told you I would not become my mother, but I’m afraid I sounded just like her.  I misjudged just how much this role would affect me, and truly, I’m sorry.”

An apology was the last thing I expected.

“You have a lot of work to do catching up after being away, and of course, in replacing your mother and gaining the requisite respect as the new Lady Featherington.  I think it would be for the best if I were not another distraction.  We have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves when you get past all these teething issues.”

“You’re not coming with me?”  She sounded disappointed.

“I think it would be for the best if I didn’t.”

“Why?”

“It should come as no surprise to you that I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress.  You are so much better doing your job without me.  I told your mother once that when the time came I would not like the responsibilities of being your husband.  Now that I have seen what it could possibly entail, I like it even less.  You might also want to reconsider our arrangement, after all, we only had a marriage of convenience, and now that those obligations have been fulfilled, we both have the option of terminating it.  I won’t make things difficult for you if that’s what you want.”

It was yet another anomaly, I thought; she should look distressed, and I would raise the matter of that arrangement.  Perhaps she had forgotten the finer points.  I, on the other hand, had always known we would not last forever.  The perplexed expression, to me, was a sign she might have forgotten.

Then, her expression changed.  “Is that what you want?”

“I wasn’t madly in love with you when we made that arrangement, so it was easy to agree to your terms, but inexplicably, since then, my feelings for you changed, and I would be sad if we parted ways.  But the truth is, I can’t see how this is going to work.”

“In saying that, do you think I don’t care for you?”

That was exactly what I was thinking, but I wasn’t going to voice that opinion out loud.  “You spent a lot of time finding new ways to make my life miserable, Susan.  You and that wretched friend of yours, Lucy.  While your attitude improved after we were married, that was because you were going to use me when you went to see your father, and then almost let me go to prison for your murder.”

“I had nothing to do with that, other than to leave, and I didn’t agree with Lucy that you should be made responsible for my disappearance.  I cannot be held responsible for the actions of my mother.  She hated you; Lucy didn’t understand you, and Millie told me I was stupid for not loving you in return, and she was right.  Why do you think I gave you such a hard time?  You made it impossible not to fall in love with you, and it nearly changed my mind about everything I’d been planning so meticulously.  But perhaps there was a more subliminal reason why I did because after I left, I wanted to believe, if anything went wrong, you would come and find me.”

“How could you possibly know that I’d even consider doing something like that, given what you knew about me?”

“Prendergast made a passing comment when my mother asked him about you; he told us you were very good at finding people and even better at fixing problems.”

“And yet here we are, one argument away from ending it.”

I could see Maria hovering, waiting for the right moment to deliver her coffee, then go back and find Gianna, the café owner, instead.  Gianna was more abrupt and, for that reason, was rarely seen serving the customers.  Today, she was particularly cantankerous, banging the cake dish on the table and frowning at Susan before returning to her kitchen.  Gianna didn’t like Susan either.

Behind me, I heard a car stop, and when she looked up, I knew it was for her.  She had arrived with nothing, and she was leaving with nothing.

She stood.  “Last chance.”

“Forever?”

She hesitated and then shook away the look of annoyance on her face.  “Of course not.  I wanted you to come back with me so we could continue working on our relationship.  I agree there are problems, but it’s nothing we can’t resolve if we try.”

I had been trying.  “It’s too soon for both of us, Susan.  I need to be able to trust you, and given the circumstances, and all that water under the bridge, I’m not sure if I can yet.”

She frowned at me.  “As you wish.”  She took an envelope out of her bag and put it on the table.  “When you are ready, it’s an open ticket home.  Please make it sooner rather than later.  Despite what you think of me, I have missed you, and I have no intention of ending it between us.”

That said, she glared at me for a minute, shook her head, then walked to the car.  I watched her get in and the car drive slowly away.

No kiss, no touch, no looking back. 

…

© Charles Heath 2018-2025

strangerscover9

Writing a book in 365 days – 302

Day 302

The Accuracy of Non-fiction

…

The Unbreakable Vow: How Accurate Must Non-Fiction Really Be?

The Ethical Tightrope Walk of the Storyteller

In an age where information is constantly challenged and fact-checking seems like a lost art, the role of the non-fiction writer has never been more vital—or more scrutinised. When a reader picks up a memoir, a history book, or a piece of investigative journalism, they enter into a sacred contract with the author.

That contract is simple: This is the truth.

But how absolute is that requirement? Writing, after all, is an art form, not a police report. Where does artistic license end, and fabrication begin? And what happens when a writer breaks the cardinal vow of non-fiction?

1. The Currency of Trust: Defining Accuracy

Non-fiction is built on trust. Unlike the novelist, whose power lies in invention, the non-fiction writer’s power rests entirely on verifiability.

The Standard is Rigour

For true accuracy, a writer must adhere to several key principles:

  • Verifiability: All key facts, dates, events, and quotes must be traceable to reliable sources (documents, interviews, established historical record).
  • Contextual Honesty: Presenting a fact accurately is not enough; it must be presented within its proper context. Omitting crucial context can turn a truth into a lie of implication.
  • Due Diligence: The writer has an ethical obligation to actively seek out and include information that might contradict their central thesis, rather than cherry-picking facts that bolster their argument.

The Grey Area: When Narrative Needs Taming

The truth is often messy, disorganised, and tedious. To shape a compelling narrative, even the most rigorous writer must perform certain operations that skirt the edges of pure objectivity:

  • Composite Characters: Combining minor, unnamed figures into one character for the sake of narrative flow (e.g., “a nurse” who represents three different nurses the author spoke to). Ethical Boundary: This is acceptable only if the composite character does not perform actions that never happened or fundamentally alter the setting or plot.
  • Dialogue Recreation: Human memory is imperfect. Few people remember the exact wording from conversations years ago. Writers often recreate dialogue based on notes, journals, or the known speaking style of the person. Ethical Boundary: The reconstructed dialogue must faithfully reflect the actual intent and meaning of the original exchange.
  • Compression of Time: Events that occurred over weeks may be described as happening over a day to maintain momentum. Ethical Boundary: This cannot mislead the reader about cause and effect.

In essence, the rule for navigating the gray area is this: You can compress, simplify, or rephrase, but you cannot introduce invention. If the event, the essential characters, or the core outcome did not happen or exist, you have crossed into fiction.

2. The Cardinal Sin: Fabrication and Lying

Fabricating material in non-fiction is not merely a mistake; it is an act of fraud.

A writer lies when they invent interviews, invent sources, invent data, or fundamentally alter the outcome of a factual event simply to make the story “better.”

The motivation for lying is almost always narrative convenience—the truth wasn’t exciting enough, complete enough, or emotionally satisfying. This choice, driven by desperation or arrogance, guarantees catastrophic consequences.

3. The Scorched-Earth Consequences of Lying

The consequences for writers who fabricate or lie about non-fiction material are swift, catastrophic, and often permanent. They touch every aspect of the writer’s professional and personal life.

A. Reputational Death

For a non-fiction writer, reputation is their lifeblood. Once fabrication is discovered, the writer is professionally toxic.

  • Loss of Credibility: A single lie taints every word the writer has ever published and ever will publish. The reader instantly wonders, “If they lied about this date, did they lie about the entire premise?”
  • Ostracization: Publishers, editors, journalists, and academic institutions will severely limit or cease association with the writer. The writer is no longer a professional peer; they are a liability.
  • The Loss of the Subject: If the work was a biography or history, the writer loses the ability to access primary sources or interview subjects, as no one will risk having their story distorted again.

B. Financial and Legal Ruin

Fabrication often leads to substantial financial and legal actions:

  • Book Recalls and Returns: Publishers are often forced to recall and pulp thousands of copies, costing millions. Royalties are stopped immediately, and the author may be required to pay back advances (a “clawback”) based on breach of contract.
  • Lawsuits: If the fabricated material slanders or libels a real person, or invades privacy, the author and publisher face costly civil lawsuits. This is especially true in memoirs, where the writer has misrepresented the actions or character of family members or acquaintances.

C. The Death of the Work

When fabrication is exposed, the work itself ceases to be viewed as literature or history; it becomes a footnote in the history of literary scandal.

  • Academic institutions remove the book from reading lists.
  • Awards won by the book are often revoked.
  • The work, no matter how engaging the fictional elements were, loses its cultural permanence because its foundation is rotten.

The Example of Literary Hoaxes

History is littered with examples of celebrated non-fiction—particularly memoirs—that were revealed to be frauds. These incidents rarely end with the writer receiving a slap on the wrist. They often involve public confession, professional exile, and a permanent asterisk next to their name in literary history. The narrative satisfaction gained by lying is never worth the loss of an entire career.

The Ultimate Responsibility

The job of the non-fiction writer is the challenging, often frustrating, task of wrestling the truth into a readable shape. It means accepting that sometimes, the real story is incomplete, ambiguous, or less dramatic than we might wish.

The commitment to accuracy is not just an ethical preference; it is the scaffolding upon which the entire genre is built. When we pick up a pen or open a keyboard to write non-fiction, we make an unbreakable vow to the reader to stay true to the facts, not because it’s easy, but because the alternative is professional and sometimes personal extinction.

The truth may be messy, but in non-fiction, it is the only story that matters.

“The Things We Do For Love”

Would you give up everything to be with the one you love?

…

Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?

For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself.  It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.

Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.  

Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.

A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone.  To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.

But can love conquer all?

It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.

The cover, at the moment, looks like this:

lovecoverfinal1

Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?

For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself.  It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.

Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.  

Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.

A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone.  To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.

But can love conquer all?

It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.

The cover, at the moment, looks like this:

lovecoverfinal1

In a word: Double

I was watching a TV program and the words ‘double standards’ kept being thrown about with little attention being paid to what it really means.

Like statistics, words can be used in any manner to support or debunk what someone else will call a fact.

Fact, of course, is another word that’s thrown around like a football.

But double standards, what does it really mean?

“a rule or principle which is unfairly applied in different ways to different people or groups”

Put simply, if you own a cat, and I hate cats, I’m likely to say to you I like cats because of who you are and what I might want from you.

It has far more reaching consequences in reality because some of us might profess they regard everyone as being equal ‘in the eyes of the Lord’ but have a very different private view.

Personally, I believe everyone should be treated equally.  The problem is, a great many people around me do not, and it seems that I am slowly becoming a minority in my own country.

How do we rectify this?

I don’t think we can.  Politicians are now running scared in their own constituencies because of the increasing multicultural population, and cannot be seen to favor one group or another.

Until lobby groups come into play, campaign funding to the politician is discussed, and very subtly, votes are bought.

Does your political representative work on the basis of double standards?

Maybe it’s time to find out before it’s too late, and you too will be living in shanty huts on a reservation.

An excerpt from “If Only” – a work in progress

Investigation of crimes doesn’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get either found or punished.

That was particularly true in my case.  The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.

At one stage the police thought I had murdered my own wife though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me.  I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.

The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters.  She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbors reckon there were heated discussions the day before.

Routine was the word she used.

Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible.  I could sense the raging violence within him.  Fortunately, common sense prevailed.

Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.

After three months the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.

But it was not the last I saw of Gabrielle.

The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.

For months I was barely functioning, to the extent I had all but lost my job, and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.

They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts.  Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.

No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.

She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy.  Her story varied only in she had been made to witness his execution.  Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.

It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down.  I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess.  Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.

What happened become our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again.  It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.

And it had.

Since then, we saw each about once a month in a cafe.   I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.

We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee.  It took a while for me to realize that all she had was her work, personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.

She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.

I wondered if this text message was in that category.  I was certain it would interest the police and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt, about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.

I reached for the phone then put it back down again.  I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.

© Charles Heath 2018-2020

NANOWRIMO – November 2025 – Day 14

…

The Third Son of a Duke

…

Well, if the wharf at Pinkenba in Brisbane is anything to go by, a tin shed and a wharf that the ship is considerably longer than, then where the hell had he finished up?

The port of Brisbane in 1914 didn’t amount to much, but it did have a railway station and a train he could catch to Brisbane proper.  From there, it was another two trains from Brisbane to Rockhampton and then to Winton.

Outback Queensland, Australia.  Fortunately, Winter is coming, but it’s not going to be the winters of England. Although cool at night, the temperatures in the tropics were much warmer.

From Winton, it’s a truck ride from the station to the cattle station, about 20 miles or so from the front gate.  It’s big with thousands of acres, and the station house is like an oasis in the middle of scrub.  His uncle owns the station with other family members. They raise beef cattle for export to their home country. As the war approaches, the war effort will likely require supplying beef for the army.

But war is not yet upon them, and he is introduced to life on the land.

His guide is his cousin, a girl about his sister’s age, and the difference between his cousin and his sister is as wide as a chasm.  His cousin is a station hand, manager, personnel manager, musterer, and guide.  She will be the one to train him up in what will be required, and with no time to unpack his belongings, they’re out into the wilds for a week’s orientation.

Luckily he can ride a horse.

…

1980 words, for a total of 21125 words.

Writing about writing a book – Day 24

Time to put the team back together, well, sort of.

We’ve been given the introduction to who Barry McDougall is, or the man otherwise known as ‘Brainless’, and after three days of trying to get it straight, this is the first rough draft of his start in the story.

…

Barry, whose daring selfless deeds earned him the nickname Brainless because that was the only way to describe the motivation behind them, was one of the regular soldiers, and, for a long time, had been my only true friend.  His was a reputation both friends and foes alike considered awesome.  He’d been in Vietnam, and later just turned up at Davenport’s camp, reporting for duty.

Davenport was more surprised than I was at his arrival, but obviously, after checking his credentials, was impressed because he let him stay.  And it would be true to say, if he had not, I would not be here now.

So Barry was just the sort of person I needed to help me.

That was the good news.

The bad news was Barry, at the best of times, either on one of his ‘benders’ using drugs or alcohol, whatever was easier to get at the time, lost to everyone, or locked up in a mental institution, having admitted himself.  He had no interest in participating in life, hadn’t worked in years, and often said, in moments when he was at his lowest, that he did not care if he lived or died.  It had not always been that way, but his demons had all but taken him over, and despite the help, I tried to give him, nothing could shake him out of this lethargy.  He said once he envied me that I could not remember the dark days, and, now those memories had returned, I knew what he meant.

For a long time, I could not understand why he didn’t try harder to help himself, and I guess he humoured me by accepting the jobs I’d found him, and the help I offered.  I owed him a great deal, but that was probably the one honourable thing about him, he never expected, nor wanted anything in return.

He tried to make a go of being a police officer and lasted several years before he resigned over an incident that didn’t reach the papers.  There was, he said, no place for heroics in modern society.  I hadn’t got to the bottom of it, but I heard he shot some thieves at a time when the police were trying to promote a pacifist image.

He tried a few other occupations with an equal lack of success, so now he survived on whatever money I gave him.  He lived on the street, and when he was not there, I knew he could be found in a bar, in one of the more seedier parts of the city, a ubiquitous underground bar called Jackson’s, named after a man who had a salubrious reputation that hovered between load shark and saint, and who was reputed to be buried under the storeroom floor.  The present owner, or what I assumed to be the owner, was a large, gruff, ex-prizefighter, who had the proverbial heart of gold, most of the time, and who took my money and looked after Barry without making it look like he was.

I’d called the bartender in advance, and he said he was in his usual spot, and that it was at the start of the next cycle, having just discharged himself from the hospital after a bout of pneumonia.  It was, he said, getting worse, and taking longer to recover.

It was probably only a matter of time before it took him, so perhaps this time I would have to try harder to convince him to give up his nomadic lifestyle.

When I walked in, the aroma of spilled beer, stale sweat, and vomit, mingled with the industrial-strength carbolic cleaner almost took my breath away.  In the corner, two construction workers were sitting, quietly smoking and drinking large glasses of beer.  In the other, Barry was being held up by the table, an untouched double scotch sitting in front of him.  Sitting at the bar was a woman of indeterminate age, badly made up, and thin to the point of emaciation.  I was not sure what she was drinking, or what it was she was smoking, but I could smell it from the front doorway.

The bartender, Ogilvy, no first name given, was pretending to polish glasses, standing at the end of the bar, looking at the television, playing some daytime soap.  He didn’t look over when I came in, but I knew he didn’t miss anything.  I saw him flick a glance at Barry, and then shake his head.  I think he cared as much about Barry as I did but could recognise the sadness within him.  As much as Ogilvy said, which wasn’t much, he too had seen service in Vietnam, and it had affected him too.

I ordered an orange juice, caught the glances from the construction workers, and a steely look from the woman then went over to Barry’s table and sat down.  Despite the loud scraping noise when I moved the chair, or the creaking as I sat in it, Barry didn’t move.

Whilst the bar had that seedy aroma, Barry was showing the signs of having spent the time on the street.  It was one of the disadvantages of having no permanent residence and though there was a shower at the bar which Ogilvy let Barry use from time to time, he obviously hadn’t for a few days.

A groan emanated from the table, and Barry moved his head slightly.

I shifted the drink in front of him, and then a hand went out and moved it back.  He lifted his head to look at me and then lowered it again.

“I thought it was you.”

…

© Charles Heath 2016-2025

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 37

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.

 

An hour later we were stopped by the side of the road, at a point where another road, or, rather, a track headed to the left into the forest.

A short distance before that I noticed a sign, battered and faded, advertising an airport, a sign I thought had been put there as a joke.

Of course, when I remembered the conversation I had with Monroe back on the plane and the fact we had a specialist pilot in our group, it all began to make sense.

Our exit strategy.

I only wished I had internet coverage so I could check the presence of an airport in what looked to be the middle of nowhere.

Only Davies seemed unperturbed.

I had to ask.  “Did you know there was an airport here?”

“Of one, used by fly-ins for the Garamba National Park.  Not much of an airstrip though, and we don’t exactly have up to the minute details on its surface, but as recently as a week ago a small plane had landed there.”

“Thanks for telling me.”

“All you had to do was ask the right question.”

It seems I didn’t know what the right questions were, what might be called an occupational hazard on a job like this.

Everyone had got out of their cars to stretch their legs and prepare for the next phase of the operation, which was to meet with the kidnappers.  I expected Jacobi would be on the sat phone talking to their leader, advising we had arrived.

I went back to Mobley, standing with the Ugandan soldier that had been assigned as his driver, smoking a cigarette.  I was surprised he hadn’t joined the others who had gathered ahead of the lead vehicle.

“Nice shooting back there,” I said.  It was for a man under pressure to make the shots, and give the rest of us a chance to take care of the others.  That no one else got shot was a miracle.

“Just another day at the office.”

“Well, it hasn’t ended yet.  I want you to go to the airstrip and get it under surveillance.  There is supposed to be an aircraft there, whether for our use or just there so we can steal it I’m not quite sure.  But if there’s a plane there, I want you to make sure it doesn’t leave, but as quietly as possible.  We should be along later with the packages.  I’m going up to tell the Colonel he’ll be joining you.  He might not want to, but he’s done enough for us.  I don’t want him to make enemies unnecessarily.”

“As you wish.  I’ll be along shortly.”

“Good.  Make sure your radio is working and on.  I need to know if anything goes sideways.”

“It won’t.”

I wish I had his confidence.

A minute later I reached the front of the convoy and saw why there seemed little animation among the group.  Monroe had Jacobi on his knees and a gun on the back of his neck.

“This is an interesting development Lieutenant.  Is there a problem I should know about?”

“I reckon the weasel sold us out back there.  Maybe even called them in to shake us down for one reason or another.  Didn’t try too hard to negotiate with the commander.”

No, he hadn’t.  And the thought had crossed my mind too.  A bit of cash on the side, split with the commander.  There didn’t seem to be any intent of the commander’s part to shoot us, so it was a pity we had to kill them all.  If they were part of the kidnapper’s operations, things might get a little dangerous.

“Before you kill him,” I said, “Did he tell you how the call to the kidnappers went?”

“Didn’t ask.”

“Perhaps you should.”

Mobley picked that moment to drive up alongside Jacobi and the Lieutenant.

“Problem?” he asked through the window.

“No.  We’re practicing our run at the kidnappers.”

He shrugged.  I looked over at the Colonel.  “Time for you to be moving on.  You don’t need to be in on the next part, for plausible deniability.  I suspect if the leader of this group sees you, and makes any connection back to the Ugandans, it could cause trouble.”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“Better if you didn’t have to.  My man needs help at the airstrip and a man of your authority might just smooth over problems if he needs it.”

“You’re having a plane sent in?”

“I’d like to think so, might even get you home in time for a late supper.”  I glared at Jacobi.  “How does he get to the airstrip?”

“Normally, through the town, but there’s a track about 200 yards up the road.  Go left, follow the road, then turn right at the first fork.”

He stood staring at the ground for a minute, hopefully considering doing as I asked.  I was not sure what I was going to do if he didn’t.  It was preferable he didn’t come with us.

“OK.  You have a point.  No need stirring up my Congo friends any more than I already have.”

He went over to Mobley’s car and got in, replacing the Ugandan soldier as a driver.

“See you when we see you,” Mobley said, and the Colonel drove off after a wave.

Back to my other problem.

“You’ve had time to think about your answer, Jacobi, so tell us.”

“An eight-mile drive along the next track, then instead of taking the fork to the airstrip, go left, and drive to you reach the checkpoint.”

“The meeting is on.”

“They’re waiting for us.”

“In more ways than one, I’d say,” Monroe muttered.  “He’s outlived his usefulness in my book.”

Ordinarily, I would agree with her, but we still needed him.  There might have been an initial negotiation, but it was far from what the end deal would be, and he had to be there to complete it.  And if he was leading us into a trap, well, we’d just have to wait and see.

“We still need him, so ease up on the aggression.  If he has double-crossed us, you can shoot him.  Until then, play nice.  But, just as a precaution, you and Stark can bring up the rear, stop about a mile short, and do some recon between there and the checkpoint.  If anyone is thinking of sneaking up behind us, I want to know about it.”

Monroe shook her head, then eased the gun away from him.  A nod to me.

“He can go with you in the lead car.  Davies can come with me and keep driving the car.  They’ll be expecting four vehicles.”

“Fair enough.”  I turned to Baines, the first time I’d addressed him since getting on the plane at the black site.  “You wouldn’t happen to know if there’s a portable rocket launcher among that film equipment, would you?”

“And half a dozen shells.  Don’t know how they managed it, but it’s there.”

“Easy to get at?”

“If need be.”

“Good.”  I looked around at the rest of the team.  “Everyone had time to calm their nerves.”

I’d watched Jacobi drag himself to his feet and try to brush the dust of his clothes.  It didn’t help restore what was once quite clean and crisp linen.  No one helped him, in fact, if I gave the order to shoot, all of them would.  Monroe’s accusation struck a chord with the others.

“We’d better get going,” she said, heading for the last vehicle after being joined by Davies.  Out of earshot, she said something to her, and I heard them laughing.

I was not sure what it was about, but as long as it eased the tension in her.  She had discovered which car was carrying the diamonds, co-incidentally the car I’d been driving, so we needed a situation so that we could remove the diamonds from the equation when we arrived at the checkpoint.  There was no way the kidnappers were going to let us retrieve the package once we got there, and I had no doubt we would be separated from the cars, and the equipment, so that, if possible, the kidnappers could gain the upper hand.

Or that was how I suspected it would go down.  It was only a matter of time before I was proved right or wrong.

Everyone else got back into the cars, and with Jacobi sitting in the front with me, I started moving forward.

I wasn’t prepared, not mentally anyway.  I never was when going into battle.

 

© Charles Heath 2019-2020

Writing a book in 365 days – 301

Day 301

Writing exercise

Spring had been just around the corner for a month, and now she was running out of excuses.

…

I knew instinctively that whatever chance I had with Genevieve was gone. I mean, it wasn’t much of a chance in the first place; I just happened to be in the right place at the right time when she rebounded from Tommy.

That had been a hard pill for her to swallow, and I’d been there to pick up the pieces. I knew then that I was a convenient shoulder to cry on, that she had always been looking for Mr Right, and I was not it. I was Mr Convenient.

It was just the thought that in our senior year, I was dating the girl every boy wanted, and I wanted to care that she had feelings for me, but my older sister, she knew exactly what sort of girl Geneveive was, and said she was going to let her break my heart, if only to learn a valuable lesson for later on in life.

I was not sure if I was going to hate her forever or thank her later.

…

Staring at her with her friends across the divide that seemed to be more like a chasm than the fifty-odd feet it was in reality, I could see the writing on the wall.

I had seen her glance over, but where there once would have been a smile or a small wave, there was nothing.  When her friends glanced over, then back it was always with a burst of laughter.

Mr Convenient had become a schmuck.

I wasn’t exactly running with the popular squad, of which Genevieve was one of the leaders, but I was useful, especially when it came to helping with homework and tutoring.

Other than that, notoriety only came with the association with Genevieve, and I was not sure why she still put in the half effort she did to keep up appearances.

“It’s time to call it, Jack.  Seriously.  I’m sure what they’re saying about you isn’t complimentary.”

Benny, who hated being called that, was the guy I vied too in the class.  He was the fully fledged nerd, far cleverer than any of us, and was off to Uni next year with a guaranteed spot waiting for him.

Mine was not so assured.

It was clear he didn’t like her; his adjectives for her included brainless, vacant-minded, and vacuous.  One particular day, he found ten ‘v’ words that were rather accurate.

“You simply don’t like her, Ben.”

“What’s there to like, Jack?  If you take away the model looks and the wow factor that any normal guy would see through in an instant, what’s left?”

I was sure there was a nice girl underneath all of that so-called wrapping. I had definitely seen it there in her most vulnerable moments, but when she got over the hurt, it had gradually disappeared.

“Whatever it is, it’ll be over soon enough.  When Berkeley asks her to the Prom and she accepts, you’ll get your wish.”

“She’s only going to hurt you.  Girls like her don’t give a damn about the likes of you or I.”

No, they didn’t, which was why I had to wonder why she had bothered in the first place.

The group fifty feet away was breaking up, and Genevieve and two of her friends, whom Ben labelled the mean girls, were left.

She turned to look over in my direction, then said something to the other two, picked up her bag, and they started walking towards us.

“Incoming…”  Ben made it sound like a wave of bombers was about to pass over.

When I looked up, she was standing in front of me, the two others strategically placed.  For what?

I was sitting on the table, and almost at eye level.

“Can you share the joke?” I asked.  My tone wasn’t exactly conciliatory, but she wouldn’t know the difference.

“What joke?”  It was her model stance, the one where she would shift from foot to foot, the one where her hair would move in such a way that she had to exaggeratedly swish it.

I looked into her eyes, and realised finally that they were like a shark’s, lifeless and predatory.  I had, in a sense, made up my mind in the time it took for her to sashay her way over, that I was done, but now the moment was here…

“As much as I don’t know about you, Gen, I know you don’t have a bad memory.”

So, I was being a little obtuse because I knew she hated being called Gen. After all, it was a Tommy endearment.

Her look went from dull to suffused anger.

“I thought…”

“You thought what Genevieve?”  I interrupted her, another thing she didn’t like.

It was watching her friends’ expressions change.  It had been contempt before, now it was bordering on astonishment.

“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t use that name.”

“It’s been almost a year since he dumped you.  The name should have no significance.  Not unless you still care about him.”

I switched my glare to Harriet.  She was the definitive mean girl, living on the borrowed power from Genevieve.  She was one of those who knew which pack to run with.

“You tell me, then, since Gen has temporarily lost her memory.”

“Tell you what?”  Exasperation, a glance at Genevieve, then back, red spots appearing on her cheeks.

I took a few seconds and sighed.  Then, shaking my head, I slid off the table and grabbed my bag.

“I’m not sure what time warp all of you just came out of, but back here in the real world, friends don’t make fun of friends.”

Concern, perhaps, the mean girl mantle slipping a little.  “I don’t understand.”

“Please, Gen, let’s not go with the innocent angle.  It doesn’t become you.  Berkeley asked me what the deal was with us.  He’s a nice guy and a much better fit for you.  I told him there was nothing between us but air, Gen.  Is there?”

Ben was waiting in the wings.  If he was thrilled, I was finally called it a day; it wasn’t showing.

“I don’t get it.  What did I do?”

“Everything and nothing, Gen.  Everything and nothing.”

…

As a child, which in a sense I still was, there was a lot about the world I lived in that I knew nothing about.

Perhaps it was a failure of the education system that it didn’t teach us how we were supposed to live in a grown-up world, or perhaps they left that to the parents.

If that was the case, then just about every child would, if suddenly becoming an orphan, be totally at sea in a world they could never understand.

In my mind, that whole romance in high school thing was a mixture of intense feelings followed by considerable pain when it didn’t work out.

That was life, I’d read somewhere, the ups and downs of finding and keeping that one who should become your life partner, your best friend, and sometimes your soul mate.

Genevieve was never going to be that person.  I knew that before she stepped into my life.  He ideals were based on what she learned from her family, with a father who was up to vacuous wife number four, barely older than Genevieve.

In a day that began oddly, it was only going to get odder.

When I came home, my father was already home.  His car was in the driveway, making me think he had forgotten something he needed for work.

He was always away, so much so that I sometimes forgot I had a father.

I got as far as the first two steps on the staircase to safety when I heard him.

“Jack, spare me a few minutes, will you?”

What if I said no?  I was tempted, as much as I was, to escape by the side door.  A few minutes with him was generally about me not living up to the Whittaker way, whatever that was.

“Rather not, homework to be done.”

“That wasn’t a request.”

No, of course it wasn’t.  I should have known that not getting straight A’s for the last set of exams would elicit some sort of a response.

I shrugged and then retraced my steps to the study, which, when my father wasn’t in residence, was the library of first editions. That library was worth far more than the house.

A glance at the humidified bookcases as I passed showed no new additions.

He was standing behind his desk. “Sit.”

The chair of denouncement.  He always chose to look down on you when delivering the guilty verdict, making you feel small and squirming under the weight of the words.

“I prefer to stand.”  Eye to eye.

One of the more severe teachers at school, one whom we always believed hated his job, hated the other teachers and hated every single student, wasn’t who I thought he was.

Sent there for punishment, he stood me before him and looked me in the eyes, and asked me straight out why I shouldn’t be punished.

And I told him.  In no uncertain terms.

First kid to ever talk back to him.  I didn’t really care if he doubled it.  He didn’t.  We talked about how the world had gone to hell in a handbasket, then he sent me home, telling me that if an opponent couldn’t look you in the eyes, then he was not worth the effort.

“Genevieve Dubois?”

“Yesterday’s news.  I thought she cared about me.  She does not.”

“Not what her father tells me.  She’s under the impression she did something wrong.”

What did this have to do with anything?  When did my father give a damn about any of my romantic attachments?  His domain was making my sisters’ boyfriends shit themselves.

“If you want a list, give me a week.  You do realise her previous boyfriend was Tommy Blake.  He was more her speed.  There’s a new chap, Tommy’s clone, Berkeley.  Never get in the way of quarterbacks and Prom Queens.”

“The perils of high school, eh?”

My father had been there star quarterback for the school in his day, and my mother the prom queen.  Those days were long gone, but both apparently made a hit at the last reunion.  I saw the original prom photos, and she was every bit Genevieve, and yet nothing like her.”

“Different to your days, I’m afraid.  You want me to get an education, live up to the Whittaker ideals, then there isn’t time for girls like Genevieve.”

“Do you like her?”

Odd question.  Why would he care?  “I always have, since the first day I saw her.  But I also knew that she would never care for me in the same way.”

“And for the last year?”

How did he know any of this?  He was never home, and never asked, just yelled at me over slipping grades.

“I was a convenient shoulder to cry on while she assessed the boys for her next target.  I was the safest option.  She’s got over the hurt and she’s ready to move on.  I simply gave her permission.  What the hell is this all about?”

“Appearances.  Something you will never understand.  The two of you together … had a purpose.”

“Not for me.  To her, I’m an object of ridicule.  I’m done with her.”

He sighed.  There was more to this story, and if he was going to tell me, he’d decided against it.

“Give it some consideration, Jack.  I’m sure she’s not as bad as you think she is.”

I shrugged.  “As you wish.”

…

I usually left my cell phone off after six because it was only a distraction.  Sometimes I would leave it on to see if Genevieve would call, but she had better things to do, like the proverbial ‘wash her hair’ excuse.

She called on the beginning before the familiarity breeds contempt phase.

Today I left it on, and, predictably, Genevieve called.  It was short, meet her at the bandstand in the park.

It was, if anything, a set-up.  That’s how much I thought of her, which sadly wasn’t how I wanted to think of her.

A set-up for what, though?

These days, all the messaging we got was not to go out alone and certainly not to public places like the park at night.  There had been incidents, but not for a while.  The new sheriff was all about law and order and was as good as his word.

Just the same, I took precautions, but astonishingly, she was alone, waiting. 

Contrary to any other time I had seen her, she had dressed in a manner that I preferred, without looking half-naked and painted like a harlot.  It was an awful comparison to make, but she was not the only girl in that category.  But the one major difference, her hair.  It was messy and unkempt.

This version of Genevieve was totally out of character, like it was her sister, not her.  It was remarkable how the two looked so alike despite the two-year age difference.

I stood at the top of the steps, keeping a distance between us.  I could also monitor any movement in any direction.

“You came,” was all she said.

“You asked politely.”

“You said you were done with me.”

In not as many words, but yes.  “Don’t act surprised.  I ask a question and you ignore it.  I have two eyes, Genevieve.”

“Appearances can be deceptive.”

“In more ways than one.  I’ve always known who and what you are, and always hoped that would change; that I might have some effect on you.  People do when they’re together over time.  Most people.”

She hadn’t become less vacuous, just learned to hide it well in my company.  But I had seen her out and about when she hadn’t known I was there, and whatever I saw, it was just an act.

“I’ve changed.”

“With whom?  Did you switch places with your sister to try and fool me?” It was harsh and uncalled for, but I was angry.

“Do you hate me that much?” Tears.  I knew there was going to be tears.

“I don’t hate you, I could never hate you. But I don’t think you know or will know how to reciprocate that love.  It’s just not in you.”

She didn’t answer.  Instead, she used a tissue to wipe away the tears.

My father’s words were still ringing in my ears, that there was a purpose.  What purpose.  What could he need for Genevieve and me to be together?

“What’s this really about.  I get home, and my father is there.   He’s never there.  And worse, he’s asking me about us.  He’s never, ever, ever cared about anything I do except when my grades slip to an A minus.  In any other universe, you and I would be a world apart.”

“My father spoke to me, too, or, rather, he yelled a lot. He’s never done that. We are both in a different universe, as you put it. But he was right about one thing. You put up with me when I was a miserable bitch, and very few people would. My mother certainly wasn’t any help, not that she’s much older than me. God, I hate my father, because my real mother won’t have anything to do with me. I remind her of him, and so she hates me, so I had only your shoulder to cry on.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” It was a sad story, and it was making me feel bad, but I had to be unwavering. She was still the same manipulative leader of that pack of mean girls.

“No. It’s just how it is.”

“What about Berkeley. I saw you talking to him. He has to be happy you’re free now?”

“He is, but I read between the lines. I’m simply a challenge and a ticket to Prom King.”

“Give it to him. I don’t want to be King; in fact, I’m not going.” Or did I just work out what my father’s subtext was all about?

“Like me, you won’t have a choice. I told Berkeley he can be friends, but he isn’t going to be the King. You are whether you like it or not. Between the two of our fathers, both vying to be the school’s principal benefactor for this year, we got caught in the crossfire. I overheard my dad talking, well, yelling, at your father.”

Of course, I should have seen the signs. Elections for public office, nothing sticks in the minds of the voters than a large donation, and there were solid rumours about a school stadium for the basketball team. We had a good team, and a bad stadium.

I sighed. Nothing was ever going to be straightforward.

“So what’s the deal?”

“Do you have to make it sound like a transaction?”

“You don’t care about me, so what’s the difference?”

“What if I said I did?”

“I’d say I’d just stepped into whatever unreal universe you’re in.”

“Well, I guess I have about a month to prove the impossible. You could have come, told me where to go, and left but you didn’t. Instead, we had the talk we should have had six months ago, and I now know how much of the mountain I have to climb. To you, impossible; to me, improbable. Now, come over here and sit, and if you’re nice to me, I’ll share what’s in this picnic basket.”

I sighed, for about the tenth time in five minutes. What harm could it do?

….

©  Charles Heath  2025

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Sorrento, Italy

Beyond the Limoncello & Lira: 5 Unforgettable Adventures on Sorrento’s Road Less Travelled

Sorrento. Just the name conjures images of sun-drenched cliffs, fragrant lemon groves, and the sparkling azure waters of the Bay of Naples. It’s a town of undeniable charm, a perfect blend of natural beauty and vibrant Italian life, and a beloved gateway to the Amalfi Coast and Pompeii.

But what if you’ve already strolled through Piazza Tasso, admired the views from Villa Comunale, and perhaps even sampled a limoncello (or three)? What if you yearn for experiences that delve a little deeper, moving beyond the main tourist thoroughfare to uncover the authentic soul of Sorrento?

You’re in luck! While Sorrento certainly holds its own as a popular destination, there’s a wealth of hidden gems and less-trodden paths waiting to be discovered. So, dust off your sense of adventure, because we’re about to explore five unforgettable things to do in Sorrento that go a little something like this: “the road less travelled.”

1. Dive into Local Cuisine with an Authentic Cooking Class (Beyond the Tourist Trap)

Sure, you can eat incredible food everywhere in Sorrento, but why not learn to make it? While many hotels offer classes, seek out a more intimate, local experience. Look for classes held in a family home, a small agriturismo on the outskirts, or even a local nonna (grandmother) offering private lessons.

Why it’s “road less traveled”: This isn’t just about cooking; it’s about cultural immersion. You’ll learn family secrets, understand local ingredients (perhaps even picking them from a garden), and participate in a timeless Italian ritual. Often, these experiences involve a market visit, too, truly connecting you to the source of your meal. Imagine kneading pasta dough by hand, concocting a perfectly balanced tiramisu, or mastering gnocchi with a view of the Bay – now that’s a souvenir!

Tip: Ask your B&B host for recommendations for private classes or small, family-run operations. Websites like Airbnb Experiences can also be a good starting point for finding unique local hosts.

2. Discover the Hidden Gem of Marina di Puolo

While Marina Grande and Marina Piccola are bustling hubs, venture slightly west along the coast, and you’ll stumble upon the charming, much quieter fishing village of Marina di Puolo. It feels like stepping back in time.

Why it’s “the road less travelled”: This isn’t a place most bus tours stop. It’s a genuine working fishing village with a small, pebbly beach, crystal-clear water perfect for a swim, and a handful of delightful, unpretentious seafood trattorias right on the shore. Here, you’ll find locals enjoying their afternoon, children playing, and the freshest catch imaginable gracing your plate. The vibe is relaxed, authentic, and utterly charming.

Tip: You can reach Marina di Puolo by a pleasant walk from Sorrento (about 30-40 minutes), or a short, scenic bus ride. Stay for sunset – it’s magical as the lights twinkle across the water.

3. Hike to the Pristine Bay of Ieranto (Punta Campanella Nature Reserve)

For nature lovers and intrepid explorers, the hike to Ieranto Bay offers breathtaking rewards far from the crowds. Located at the very tip of the Sorrentine Peninsula, within the Punta Campanella Marine Protected Area, this stunning bay is accessible only by foot or kayak.

Why it’s “road less travelled”: It requires effort! The moderate 6km (round trip) trail starts from Nerano (a short bus ride from Sorrento) and descends through olive groves and Mediterranean scrub, offering panoramic views of Capri and the Faraglioni rocks. The destination is a secluded, pebbly beach with unbelievably clear turquoise waters, perfect for swimming and snorkelling. It’s a veritable sanctuary, managed by the FAI (Italian National Trust).

Tip: Wear sturdy shoes, bring plenty of water, and pack a picnic. There are no facilities once you reach the bay. Check the FAI website for opening times and any potential entry requirements (though usually free). The views alone are worth every step!

4. Explore the Authentic Hilltop Village of Sant’Agata sui Due Golfi

Escape the coastal hustle and bustle by heading inland to Sant’Agata sui Due Golfi, a charming village perched high on the hills of the Sorrentine Peninsula. Its name, “on the two gulfs,” perfectly describes its unique selling point: incredible panoramic views of both the Bay of Naples (with Vesuvius) and the Bay of Salerno (with the Amalfi Coast).

Why it’s “road less travelled”: Many tourists zoom past Sant’Agata on their way to more famous destinations. But taking the time to explore its quiet streets, browse local shops, and enjoy a meal here offers a glimpse into authentic Sorrentine life away from the souvenir stands. It even boasts a couple of Michelin-starred restaurants if you’re looking for a special culinary splurge, alongside fantastic traditional trattorias.

Tip: A local SITA bus from Sorrento will get you there easily. Dedicate an afternoon to wander, enjoying an aperitivo in the piazza, and soaking in the incredible vistas. Don’t forget your camera!

5. Swim in the Natural Pool of Bagni della Regina Giovanna

While not entirely “secret,” many visitors simply snap a picture from above and move on. To truly experience the Magic of Bagni della Regina Giovanna (Queen Joanna’s Bath), you need to descend and take a dip!

Why it’s “the road less travelled”: It requires a bit of effort to reach the actual swimming spot, involving a walk down a rocky path. Most tourists stick to the top viewpoint. This dramatic natural archway, formed by the sea carving through the cliffs, encloses a hidden, emerald-green natural swimming pool. Overlooking it are the fascinating ruins of a Roman villa, believed to be where Queen Joanna II of Naples met her lovers.

Tip: Wear sturdy shoes for the walk down and water shoes for entering the water, as it can be rocky. It’s a fantastic spot for a refreshing swim and a picnic amidst ancient history and stunning nature. You can reach it by foot (about 30-40 minutes from Sorrento center) or by local bus to the Capo di Sorrento stop.

Sorrento is undeniably captivating, but by venturing off the well-trodden path, you unlock a deeper, richer experience. These “road less traveled” adventures offer not just sights, but genuine connections to the local culture, breathtaking natural beauty, and memories that will truly set your trip apart. So, next time you’re in this Italian paradise, dare to explore beyond the postcard – your Sorrento story will be richer, deeper, and uniquely yours.

Have you discovered a hidden gem in Sorrento? Share your tips in the comments below!